


stormdaughter

by grendelsmom



Series: The ladies of Storm's End [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Also there's a lot of thirsting for revenge, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, I mean Argella fantasies about killing - a lot, I mean her house words are "ours is the fury" what did you expect?, Period-Typical Sexism, Sexual Harrasment, aka westerosi bedding traditions, all the warnings that come with this story being set in a sexist society, also please note that while I'm well versed of in universe history I'm by no means an expert, and this story mostly happend on it's own, furious women, no real romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 12:36:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19476055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grendelsmom/pseuds/grendelsmom
Summary: Argella is not the son Argilac Durrandon yearned for. But she is a princess, born to rule, and may dragons stretch out their long, greedy claws - Argella has the storm, she has her fury.[set during Aegon I Targaryen's conquest of Westeros]





	stormdaughter

The wind is howling and the sea is raging, as they have been howling and raging for ages, and will continue to howl and rage forever. Argella knows the whistling and rapping well. It was her lullaby like the gentle song of the woman whom her father had called his queen and whom Argella herself can barely remember.  
But the tunes stuck with her, fused with her bones, and she had sometimes caught herself humming words of songs she did not know, when she had looked out of the narrow windows down to the Stormlands. ~~Never to the sea. Never, never to the sea.~~ It has been a long time since she last sang like that. Has sung as little girls do, who do not know anything about suffering and danger, dying wives and lacking sons.  
A son could have struck out with her father. Out into battle. A son could have learned to hold shield and sword and lance. A son could have killed Harren the Black. A son could have had his father's back. Now, in this hour when he needs it more than ever.  
But Argella is not a son. She is a daughter, a princess, an heiress - a woman. And so she waits, as the little girl did that mumbled songs and bore her name. Waits, as all women do, for fate to be kind to them, for their husbands, fathers and brothers to return home.  
She leans against the eastern walls that stretch towards the wild sea - the arm of a clenched fist. They are wider than thirteen men are long, her father told her. Without windows and loopholes. ~~Never to the sea. Never, never to the sea.~~ Steadfast enough to hold back the gods that Durran had angered so long ago. Storm's End had withstood the Wind Goddess and the Sea God. _Gods_. Her father's hair is gray and no longer black, but Aegon Targaryen and his sisters are not _gods_.  
The storm vibrates through the rocks on which Storm's End towers, through its walls and Argella feels it underneath her fingertips. The people of the Stormlands and their King are proud and unpredictable and strong as the winds that give the land its name. Her father will put an end to Orys Baratheon and his troops, who eat through the land - _her_ land - like voracious snakes. Her father will kill the bastard as he has already killed Gars on the summer field. The bastard to whom the Lord of Dragonstone wanted to marry her.  
He will slay the bastard and the storm will rage on. She believes it. She _has_ to believe it.  
He will kill him, kill him, kill him.

Orys Baratheon killed Argilac's arrogant. Slain in the battle of the last storm. And yet it the storm rages on.  
The day Argella crowns herself is the day the raven reaches Storm's End. And she is queen - Storm Queen - when Rhaenys Targaryen appears on her dragon, on her _monster_. She is beautiful, incrediblely beautiful. With long silver hair and bright eyes. And Argella finds herself thinking that she would have become the sisters wife of this woman had her father had his way. And the wife of her bastard brother, had Aegon had his. But her father is dead and Aegon's offer destroyed with the severed hands of his envoy.  
It is Argella who now rules the Stormlands. Who perceives her birthright. Who meets the woman who wants to take her everything. Verily, Rhaenys' promises are as sweet as the voice that speaks them. She speaks of Orys' troops making their way through Argella's land, the honorable death of the last storm king. She speaks of the end, of gentle, quiet peace. But Argella is the daughter of her father. She is a Durrandon. Descendant of the man who built castle after castle, refusing to be beaten. _Ours is the fury._ And fury flows through her veins. What does she care for gentleness? What for peace?  
Argella has the storm. ~~But never the sea. Never, never the sea.~~  
"May you take my castle, you will gain nothing but bones and blood and ashes." The words rush out of her, rushing towards the Dragon Rider as the wild waves beat against the rocks under Storm's End.  
And Rhaenys flies away, blown away by Argella's words. But it is not over. It will not be over yet for a while. Argella senses the unease among the men - _her_ men - she hears them whispering among the gray walls. They are scared. Scared of the Lord of Dragonstone, the swords of his knights and the fire of his dragons. Scared of Harrenhall.  
Argella is not scared. She has her pride. She has her fury.  
Ours is the fury, ours is the fury, ours is the fury.

Argella Durrandon has been Storm Queen for nine days when she is betrayed. Betrayed by the men of Storm's End, _her_ men. The fear has won. And Argella's fury burns and burns and burns.  
Her own men sneak into her room at night. Her own men tear her from her bed and the clothes from her body. Her own men put the chains around her hands and feet and stuff her mouth to stop her from bellowing like the storm that roars across the land. Her own men drag her out of her castle and throw her over a horse as if she were not their queen but a sack of flour. Her own men ride to the camp of Orys Baratheon. Her own men lay her down in front of the bastard's tent - naked, wounded - under the flag of peace.  
Orys Baratheon is tall and his hair dark and thick as if he were from the Stormlands himself, and Argella hates him for the compassion he faces her with as she has never hated anyone in her life.  
The mud is cold and wet and the rain sticks her long black hair to her back and shoulders. Her limbs ache, her chin turns yellow and green, and red stripes on her arms and legs turn to blue, where her men have seized her especially tightly. But Argella does not squirm. She does not make herself small. She does not freeze. Her pride holds her head high, her fury warms her.  
Orys throws his coat around her shoulders and gets the keys from her men. He opens the shackles on her hands. Then he kneels in front of her in the mud and also frees her feet. Argella stares at his skull and wishes she could smash it. A dark, red ruin gaping between the black hair.  
She knows what's coming. And Orys knows it too. She recognizes it in the way he looks at her. So much pity, so much care. She wants to strangle him with it. Grab his neck and press him down until his lips turn blue and he chokes on it.  
He leads her into his tent and pours her heated wine. Black and red cloths hang from the walls. The colors of his lord. The colors of his father, if one believe the rumors. And Argella believes them. As her father believed them. She sits down in a chair, still wrapped in Orys Baratheon's coat. It is filthy and dirty from mud and storm, almost as filthy and dirty as her arms, legs and hair. Did Orys wear this coat when he killed her father? Does the blood of Argilac the Arrogant still stick to the fabric? Argella takes a big sip of wine. She feels sick.  
Orys' voice is soft and cautious when he tells her about the battle of the last storm. Of the death of her father. He tells her of heroism and bravery and honor and Argella presses her lips together, forcing her eyes to stay dry. Because these are not her chambers, it is not Storm's End. She has neither the howling of the wind in the courtyard, nor the quake of the thick stones to comfort her. ~~And not the sea either. Never, never the sea.~~ And she will not cry. Not in front of Orys Baratheon. Not in front of any man who found her too weak. She swears that.  
She does not look him in the face while he talks. She looks at his hands. Big, strong hands that sword handles have worked calluses in. And she wonders which one he killed her father with.  
When Aegon sent his ambassador to Stormcaps to offer Orys as a husband for her, her father cut off the poor messangers hands and sent them to Dragonstone in a box. _These are the only hands your bastard shall have of me._ How wrong her father had been. Orys will have so much more than the rotting hands of a man.  
She looks up into the dark eyes of the man she will have to marry. Orys Baratheon does not look like a man who loves war. Sure, he's strong and she can see scars on his hands and arms, but there's a clemency that surrounds him, with which he looks at her. What does a bastard yearn for? What does he expect from her? What does he hope for from his oh-so-noble behavior? That she will love him when Aegon Targaryen and his sisters force her in front of the altar? Him, who killed her father?  
Argella glares him. Lets all the fury that slumbers within her, flow through her like a stream, like a storm. Orys Baratheon should know what he is getting into. May he and his half-brother bend and break her, crush her pride underneath their boots, she will never let him forget.  
Never, never, never.  


Argella does not know what the Maesters will write down and sell the future as truth. But she can imagine it. _Orys' Baratheon kept the banner, title, and words of House Durrandon to honor the fallen king._ That has a nice sound. A sound that would surely please Aegon Targaryen. His best childhood friend who nobly pays tribute to the defeated enemy even in death. But Argella is not stupid enough to believe these sweet words. Which banner, which title, which words did Orys give up? A bastard has none.  
But history is written by the winners and Argella and her father have lost. And what Argilac wanted to prevent so bitterly, has occurred. Argella married Aerion Targaryen's bastard and Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys celebrate in their halls.  
The self-proclaimed King of all Westeros sits at the head of the large table and converses with his sister wife Rhaenys. His favorite, whom he married for love. And not out of a duty like Visenya. The neglected sister. But Argella can not move herself to sympathize with this serious, icy woman. And she doubts that Visenya would want that. Which proud woman wants pity?  
Aegon itself is a mighty appearance. With his short gold-silver hair and ghostllike purple eyes. He has a charismatic, authoritative air, in the way he surveys the hall, looks down on them all. Argella wants to throw him off his chair and kick him off of Storm's End's battlements. She wants to tear the black and red dragons off the walls, where they hang next to stags on yellow coats, and burn them.  
Argella feels a pair of eyes on her and only now realizes how long she has watched the three Targaryens. Orys' black eyes are never hard to decode, as she has learned in the last few days and this knowledge and familiarity that it implies lie heavy on her shoulders. He looks skeptically at her and as if trying to look into her head. But Argella can be like Storm's End, if she wishes, surrounded by impenetrable walls. She nods to her newlywed husband and is about to turn away when Orys reaches out to extend a hand. "A dance, my lady?" _Queen. I was a storm queen_ , Argella thinks bitterly. But she puts her hand in his and lets herself be led to the dance floor. As a young girl, Argella loved the wild dances of the Stormlands with their fast melodies and exuberant twists. For hours, she could stagger from one corner of her room to another - half-running, half-dancing - and imagine how Durran and Elenei had danced in the same halls hundreds of years ago - in defiance of the gods. And of course she had also danced with her suitors, of whom there had always been many. Long before she had bled for the first time and after that there hadn't exactly been fewer. Storm King had been a desirable title (a title that is no longer exists, never will again, if Aegon and his silver sisters have any say in it), and Argella liked to think that she was a desirable woman.  
It's different when the musicians beginn play and Orys spins her around before he pulls her into his arms. He does not press her close to his chest, as she knows it from some other men, and yet his embrace is claustrophobic. Argella closes her eyes, hoping that the dark shakes off the chaotic fear. But all she sees is how her father's blood flows from Orys' hand over her back, leaving deep red stains on the yellow silk. She openns her eyes wide. Orys looks her straight in the face. His black eyes seem to want to pierce her - as if he is searching for her secrets, the solution to a mystery he does not yet understand - and Argella turns away, looking somewhere behind him - where the torchlight falls on the walls and no people dance, only shadows.  
"You are in thought, my lady", Orys' voice is gentle, as it was in his tent that night, and Argella wishes he would stop. She does not want his pity. She does not want anything from him, the man who took everything from her. Kingdom, dignity, father. In her mind's eye, Aegon and Orys have long been one. Two sides of the same coin that brings nothing but misfortune. And she hates them both.  
The song ends and Argella escapes his grip. She returns to the high table, to her place by Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys. She does not eat anything and drinks only cold water. _Has there ever been a wedding as false as this?_ But then she has to think of the companions of her youth and the men to whom they were given and bites her tongue.  
She won't have to endure this farce much longer it seems, because Aegon gets up and announces that now the time has come for the newlywed couple to retire. A jubilation goes through the ranks.  
Drunken hands raise her from her seat, grabbing the cloak that Orys put around her shoulders, and the precious silk she embroidered with her chambermaids. She hears the sleeve of her dress tear and sees the ruined fabric being thrown to the floor in a hurry. There are fingers everywhere. Like ants, Argella feels their warmth through her robe - on her legs, her stomach, her breasts, her neck. Nausea rises within her. The heat of the many bodies that surround her hurts deep within her head and she feels claustrophobic. Argella thinks of the night that has been so many nights ago and yet has eaten itself into the core of her bones, the night in which her men sneaked into her room and grabbed her. They were less drunk, whether wine or pleasure, but Argella can not tell the difference to the hands on her clothes, on her skin. She wants to run, scream, bite. Wants to push away the men that touch her.  
Her skirt is torn down and she feels some hands grab her and lift her over their heads. She is carried out of the great hall in the direction of her chamber with a loud cheer. Without looking back, she knows that Orys is also being dragged in the same direction by the ladies. From afar, she can hear the excited screaming and giggling of women. But all she sees is the flickering light that the torches throw at the walls of Storm's End and all she smells is beer and sweat and too many men too close to her. The door to the bedchamber is torn open and with grudging, dirty remarks, Argella is pushed into it. A little later Orys follows. One of the women has given him a push and he comes to a slightly staggering halt in front of her. Argella can still hear a comment about what a lucky bastard Orys is when the thick wooden door closes and she is alone, wearing only her smallclothes before her husband.  
"My lady," his voice sounds apologetic as he draws closer. Uncertain, he reaches out with his hand and gently strokes her shoulder. So gentle that she barely notices it herself. "Answer me a question, sir," she replies coolly. It's the first words she's been addressing directly to him ever since they promised themselves to each other, forever. And Argella is aware of their importance even before she speaks them. "Did you slay my father with this hand, or was it your other?"  
Orys' hand jerks back as if she has bitten him. His face darkens and for the first time Argella is unable to read it like an open book. A shadow flits across his face - surprise? Anger? Disappointment? Argella does not know, but she hopes that there is a realization within it. She will not play the little lady for him or anyone else. She will not surrender herself into his arms because he - oh so nobly - saved her from her disgrace. She will not be a quiet, docile wife to him - little more than a ghost walking through the corridors, giving birth to heirs. She is Argella Durrandon and storm and fury run through her veins.  
Later that night, after the deed is done and Orys retires to his bedroom, Argella leans against the walls of Storm's End. Her room has no windows, it is built on the ocean side, and she can hear the wind howling even through the thick stones. The gods are angry. But maybe they also celebrate the end of the Durrandons who stole their daughter. Argella thinks of the huge, gray clouds. She thinks of roaring winds and the frothing sea. A smile, cold spreads on her lips. The gods are wrong, as is Aegon, who seems to consider himself one of them. This is not the end of the Durrandons. Her name has been taken from her, but not even Aegon, not even the Wind Goddess and the God of the Sea can take away her fury. It is in her blood and her blood will last. The blood of Durran, of her father, the blood of the Storm Kings will live on. And one day, it will wield its revenge on the Dragonlords.  
She swears it - by land and sky, by wind and storm, by the _**sea**_.   
Revenge, revenge, revenge.  



End file.
